


Resort Collection

by FreshBrains



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Community: comment_fic, F/F, Fashion & Couture, Married Couple, POV Andy, Post-Movie(s), Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 06:22:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6363010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though she’d never fully admit it to Miranda, Andy’s begun shopping at thrift stores</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resort Collection

**Author's Note:**

> For the LJ comment_fic prompt: [Author's choice, author's choice, a Pucci scarf is all (Character) needs to feel awesome.](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/602155.html?thread=83949099#t83949099)

“You’re late,” Miranda says, but stands anyways, leaning in for their customary kiss in greeting. She leaves her glasses on, a hint to Andy that she’s been hard at work for hours, barely looking up from her desk as she barks orders to her new assistant. “Did you have to travel by penny cab?”

“Nice to see you, too,” Andy says, unfazed, letting her hand linger a little too long on her wife’s arm. Even though they’d been married for nearly five years, Miranda was still conservative about affection in public. “I brought you lunch.”

Miranda eyes the bag in Andy’s hands, one brow raised in barely-concealed interest. “Green salad from—“

“From the new café across from your salon, yes,” Andy says, setting the food on Miranda’s desk. “You need a break. You need to _eat_.” Miranda rolls her eyes, but Andy puts up her hand before she can protest. “I only have half an hour. Don’t you want to eat with your wife?”

“Always so difficult,” Miranda says, thin-lipped, but sits down. They eat in companionable silence for a moment, but Miranda’s chewing slows as she looks Andy up and down with approving eyes. “You look…lovely. Did I forget an engagement?”

Andy feels herself flush at the compliment. She pokes at her turkey-cranberry salad, trying to be nonchalant. “Nope. I just threw whatever on this morning.” She presses a hand to her scarf. “Why, do you like it?”

She’s changed her style some since her stint at _Runway_ —she’s more casual, definitely, and a lot more practical. She spends more money on books and wine than she does on shoes and purses. And though she’d never fully admit it to Miranda, she’s begun shopping at thrift stores. Not vintage boutiques or high-end consignment stores—just run-of-the-mill secondhand shops filled with racks and racks of used clothing and accessories.

Today, she’s wearing the short, black wool Valentino dress Miranda got her for Christmas months before with simple burgundy tights and black boots. Her bag is designer—a big, shiny, functional thing with an embossed stamp from a label Andy’s never heard of who Miranda is enamored with. But around her neck is a paper-thin silk scarf, multicolored in whites, reds, and purples with a black and burgundy border. The geometric shapes clash against each other at the fold Andy is wearing it, drawing attention to the statement piece.

“That,” Miranda says, nodding at the scarf. “It suits you. Where did you pick up such a thing?” Her eyes are appraising, but Andy recognizes the pointedness in her look—it’s not a look she spares for models or designers. Those hooded eyes are for Andy only.

Andy’s about to smile and cave, telling Miranda the origins of the scarf, but she can’t resist being a little shit sometimes. “Oh, don’t give me that. You know this scarf.”

Miranda scoffs, taking a bite of her salad. “Well, if you’re saying I got it for you as a gift, you’re mistaken. I’d remember something that went so well with your hair.”

Andy bites back a smile and smooth the scarf down over her breasts, delighting in the pleased hum Miranda makes under her breath. “Oh, come on. I _know_ you know this scarf. 1955?”

Miranda is still eyeing the scarf. “1955. Is that supposed to _mean_ something to me?”

“Miranda,” Andy says, trying her hardest to make her voice serious. “It was one of his most famous collections.” She may not follow designers much anymore, but she’ll always remember the gorgeous photo of Miranda sunning next to a posse of A-list stars in Malibu in 1968, her ice-blonde hair wound up in a splashy, colorful Pucci scarf. In fact, it was one of her favorite photos of Miranda, namely because it was on her private collection and not archived in some fashion museum somewhere. She often teased Miranda about it—how young she was, how low the neckline of her two-piece suit was, even about the bright yellow polish on her toenails.

Miranda just purses her lips, maintaining her perfect poker face. “Ah, of course. Emilio Pucci’s resort collection, one of his first. I’m surprised, Andy. That must’ve cost a fortune.” She leans in, pinching the fabric between her thumb and index finger. “It’s in remarkable shape, too. It must’ve been in someone’s private collection for years. And the _pattern_ , it’s classic Pucci, but bolder somehow.” Her eyes narrow.

Andy dabs at her lips with her napkin, hiding her smile in the process. “How much do you like it?”

Miranda arches an elegant eyebrow, and if they were behind closed doors, they’d already be in bed, the scarf abandoned on the floor (or folded neatly in the bureau, if Miranda had a say in it). “Perhaps a closer look is needed.” She takes off her glasses, setting them on the desk, and leans in. Her musky perfume clouds Andy’s senses, putting her into a cloud of familiarity and comfort, and the slope of Miranda’s neck as she leans in makes Andy swallow hard. Miranda cups the back of Andy’s neck, nails grazing the soft skin, as if she’s swooping in for a kiss, but she only ducks her head to the side to appraise the scarf once more.

“I think there’s a tag in the back,” Andy says, voice thick. She knows there isn’t.

Miranda hums in assent, fingers dipping beneath the fabric to touch the warm, bare skin just below Andy’s collar. Her mouth is only inches away from Andy’s ear, her hair grazing Andy’s cheek, when she whispers in that husky voice of hers, “This is _not_ a Pucci scarf, Andrea.”

Andy breaks out in a grin, and as she ducks in for a kiss, she’s _really_ glad she had the forethought to close Miranda’s office door. Her hands are gentle on the sides of Miranda’s face, and Miranda smirks into the kiss, lips curling deliciously as she allows Andy to have her way. “When did you notice?”

“The second you walked in,” Miranda says, voice rich and buttery, and kisses Andy again before Andy has time to react.


End file.
